A Mere Unit
by TARDIS Blue Carbuncle
Summary: Formerly called "With Her to the End". After solving a mystery, Sherlock Holmes makes a bittersweet return to Cornwall, to an old friend and his daughter. Bad summary, I know. T for character death. EDITED AND UPDATED!


**Author's Note: I AM ALIVE! I am terribly sorry for not having updated "The Affair of the Angels that Wept", but that monster called Life got in the way, and I am trying to get back in the habit of writing. So, I am going through some of my stories and editing them.**

**There was a contest sponsored by Sherlockology to support the Undershaw Foundation, and I edited "With Her to the End" to fit the parameters of that contest. I think this new version is better than the original, so I am putting this new one up. My entry did not make it into the book they were creating, but I think you on Fanfiction can still enjoy the new and improved version. The new title is "A Mere Unit", and I changed some of the names. **

**As I said in the first version, I read "Sherlock Holmes and the Diving Bell", a short story by Simon Clark that was a part of the _Gaslight Arcanum_ collection (which I highly suggest you read) and he left a plot bunny that just stayed in my brain and bounced around like… well… a bunny. I wrote a basic epilogue to Clark's story.**

**Disclaimers: Is that my name on the Sherlock Holmes stories? No…**

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><p>Lord Crowley paced in his dimly lit office, nervously wringing his hands.<p>

Every few minutes, he glanced at the face of the antique grandfather clock that sat in the far corner of the room. His gaze would drift to the stained glass window, and he would scowl at the sky outside._ It's too dark to travel,_ Lord Crowley thought as he circled the small, immaculate office for the thousandth time, w_here could that blasted man be?_

Lord Crowley had spent his morning working his way through the pile of papers that flooded his ornate, mahogany desk. Many of those papers were letters from various members of Hindhead, begging for the graying, bearded man's advice. The short, stout lord ordered his servants to refrain from bothering him until his visitor arrived; with his temperament, the servants knew better than to disobey.

As the day wore on, however, his tension and irritation got to him.

All of a sudden, there was a knocking on the oak door. Lord Crowley halted in front of his desk, took a deep breath, and barked, "Come in."

The door opened, and Mr. Stewart, the black-suited butler, stepped into the office. Before the tall, muscular man could say anything, Lord Crowley asked, "Ah, Stewart! Has our visitor arrived yet?"

Without a word, Mr. Stewart stepped aside and swept his giant hand to the door. Another man, this one taller and far thinner, crossed the threshold. This man wore a brown suit, slightly wrinkled due to travel, and a white tie that bore an emerald tiepin. Lord Crowley's spirits lifted at the sight the man; the familiar hawk-like nose, the black hair touched with gray, the determined chin, and the piercing, gray eyes that bore into every man's soul.

This was the long-awaited visitor.

Lord Crowley extended his hand and beamed, saying, "Sherlock Holmes! Welcome back to Undershaw Manor! The countryside has been keeping you busy, has it not?"

"Quite," Holmes replied, taking Lord Crowley's hand. "The problem was elementary, yet more grotesque than most cases I have handled." The thin man released his grip and added, "I apologise for my late arrival; the trains were late, and a storm in Sussex made travel dangerous."

"The trains are habitually late," Lord Crowley scoffed, waving aside the apology. The smile faded from his face, and, feeling slightly embarrassed for being so impatient for news, he asked, "Mr. Holmes, you claimed that the mystery of the Miracle Doctor was elementary. Is the rumor true? Will it...?" He allowed the sentence to die on his lips.

Holmes, his face retaining the unemotional mask for which the public knew him, whispered one word. "No."

Lord Crowley's knees began to buckle, so much that Mr. Stewart and Mr. Holmes had to lead him to his chair behind his desk. Lord Crowley propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands. His voice was slightly muffled when he asked, "The cure... was it a lie? Was it imagined?"

Holmes cleared his throat and explained, "The main factor in the 'cure' was an anomaly, a re-agent in the mixture which proved itself to be fatal, despite all evidence to the contrary."

Lord Crowley moaned, "That was my last hope! My daughter, my only child..." He then collapsed into a paroxysm of sobs. "Leave me, both of you," he murmured, "Lilith's last hope, gone!"

Mr. Stewart and Mr. Holmes exchanged a glance; upon finding that the other man agreed with him, the men silently turned on their heels and left the office. Holmes shut the door behind him, blocking out the sound of Lord Crowley weeping.

Mr. Stewart leaned to Holmes and whispered, "Lilith has been sinking fast ever since you left, sir. May I take you to her room?"

"Immediately," Holmes responded.

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><p>The long walk from Lord Crowley's office to Lilith's bedroom was, to say the least, informative. Holmes took mental notes of the changes in Undershaw Manor since he left. Mounted upon the stone walls, the dim glow of candles cast eerie shadows; none of the servants bustled about, and permeating silence was so thick that Holmes could hear echo of his own footfalls. All the curtains were replaced with black drapes; the portraits were turned toward the wall, and a blanket covered every mirror that Holmes passed.<p>

"Is this Lord Crowley's doing?" he asked, motioning toward the covered mirror. At Mr. Stewart's affirmative, Holmes smirked, "A new age of scientific development is upon us, yet old superstitions still hold sway over our lives."

After a few minutes, Mr. Stewart stopped before an oak door at the end of the north wing. He knocked, but there was no reply. The butler muttered something under his breath about a negligent governess before grasping the brass knob and turning it. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a dimly lit room with white walls, void of decoration. Four pieces of furniture sat in the room: a tall, wooden dresser; a small, metal bed; a wooden chair; and a small nightstand, with a brass bell and a full glass of water sitting on top. Dust was everywhere; to Holmes it was obvious that the servants avoided this room.

His eyes fell upon the little girl tucked beneath the white covers of the bed.

To say that Lilith Ava Crowley was little would have been something of an understatement; the six-year-old was little more than skin and bones. Her face was pale; the skin stretched over pronounced cheekbones and a small, straight nose. Her fingers were white and wraith-like, weakly clutching at the thin bedclothes. Her long blonde hair, neatly braided, lay next to her head on the pillow.

"My God…" Holmes breathed.

Mr. Stewart whispered, "Ever since you left, sir, she has been asking for you. Might I wake her for you?"

Holmes nodded. He remained in the doorway while Mr. Stewart entered the dreary room. The butler placed a hand on the frail girl's shoulder, and gently shook her, whispering, "Lilith? Wake up, Lilith."

The girl stirred, and then slowly opened her eyes. Mr. Stewart said, "You have a visitor."

Lilith's dark green eyes met Holmes, and her cherubic mouth turned up in a smile. "Father's friend," she said, her voice weak and soft, yet retaining the melodic tone of an eager child. "Please, can you come closer?"

Holmes approached. He grasped the chair, pulled it to the side of the bed, and sat down. Leaning forward, he said, "Hello, Lilith. How was your day?"

"Je peux parler un peu français," (_I can speak a little French_) she proudly announced, beaming. "Tu peux parler français, Sherlock?" (_Can you speak French, Sherlock?)_

"Oui, mademoiselle. I trust that you have been feeling well?" Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes saw Mr. Stewart exit the room.

Her smile waning slightly, Lilith admitted, "No, I don't feel well. I want to go outside and play, but I cannot get out of bed. I cough a lot and it hurts me. Father says that it will go away, and that I will see Mother soon."

That statement struck Holmes in its significance. Lady Crowley had been dead for four years.

The girl suddenly frowned and asked, "Why did you leave? I asked for you yesterday, but Mr. Stewart said that you were gone. Where did you go?"

Holmes was not certain of the manner in which to respond. For a moment, he thought of evading the question altogether, yet Lilith stared at him, her dark green eyes pleading for him to speak. Then, he recalled the sensational tales his friend Watson had published over the years. Holmes shifted in the chair and dramatically whispered, "I left because there was a mystery to solve."

Lilith's eyes brightened. "A mystery!" she squealed, "Tell me more!"

Holmes launched into an account of the day before. "I shall tell you the Adventure of the Miracle Doctor..." He told the story of Gabriel Carr, a doctor who announced the discovery of a universal antidote for diseases. At the request of Lord Crowley, Holmes and Watson investigated the questionable doctor and his cure, and the trail led them to Sussex. Watson examined the patients who ingested the cure, and Holmes traced the funds and the chemical nature of the Cure. Holmes described in detail how, through chemical experiments and an index, he deduced that the primary reactant was, in fact, blood that resembled human blood, yet had properties never found in human blood. The case led them to a cavern cut into the cliffs of Sussex. The little girl cowered under the covers when Holmes spoke of the first and final encounter with Dr. Carr and a Beast unknown to science. Holmes omitted some information due to their rather violent nature, and he could not help but feel regret at the manner in which he forced himself to euthanize the Beast, but Lilith was laughing with joy when he finished.

"I like that story!" she cried, clapping her hands with excitement, "tell me another!"

Holmes bit his lip, his mind racing to find a case that was suitable for a six-year-old child. He settled upon the tale that Watson had named "The Naval Treaty". An hour passed, and by the end of the tale, Lilith's drooping eyes betrayed her weariness. Holmes rose to his feet and said, "I believe that is enough for today. I bid you goodnight."

Lilith frowned and gasped, "Don't go!"

Holmes froze in mid-turn. The girl's cry unleashed a wave of remorse that had unknowingly built in his breast over his lifetime. His brows furrowed at his own alien emotions. The sudden stirring forced him to search his brain-attic for a cause; finding none, he placed the blame on aging, mellowing, and the presence of a child.

Despite his hesitation, Holmes sat down again. He grasped one small hand lying limp on the covers with his own bony one. "I shall not leave," he muttered. "You have my word."

Lilith beamed. She leaned back into the pillow, eyes half-closed. "I'm scared of the dark," she admitted, "and when I want to see Father, he never comes. Why does he never come when I want him?" Holmes did not answer; he merely shrugged.

Then, a thought occurred to the detective. Holmes reached for the glass of water that sat on the nightstand. Lilith asked, "Are you thirsty? I haven't taken a sip."

"No," Holmes responded, sniffing the glass, "but I should like to take it with me, if you don't mind. Consider this," he held the glass before him, "a vital piece of a case."

Lilith sniffed. "Father said I have to drink a lot of water so I can get better. I want to get better, but why aren't I?" Weakly, she coughed for several moments. The girl took a deep, calming breath, and announced, "I'm tired. I want to go to bed. Will you stay with me?"

Holmes nodded.

Lilith wriggled under the covers, and then she thought of something. She glanced up into the great detective's eyes and said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

"And what, pray tell, is that?" Holmes asked.

There was no immediate response. Lilith's eyes closed, and for a minute, there was silence. Then, just as Holmes thought she had fallen asleep, Lilith whispered, "I like you, Sherlock."

Fifteen minutes later, Holmes withdrew his hand from hers, slowly got to his feet, and silently crept out of the room. Once he shut the door, the final details of the case fell into place, and he strode with vengeful purpose to the office of Lord Crowley.

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><p>A day later, Lilith's minutes were numbered.<p>

The young and clueless governess burst into the luxurious sitting room where Sherlock Holmes and Lord Crowley were smoking. Between huffs, she shouted that Lilith was sweating and having trouble breathing; she fell to the floor, muttering incoherently. Holmes and Lord Crowley wasted no time. Holmes outpaced Lord Crowley as they ran out of the sitting room, pounded up the stone steps, and sprinted down the dark halls to Lilith's room. Holmes waited for Lord Crowley to catch up before the lord threw open the door.

Lilith was crying.

The color drained from Lord Crowley's face. He told Holmes, "Mr. Holmes, stay with her. I shall be back; I need to make certain Mr. Stewart tends to the governess." Lord Crowley stumbled like a drunkard out of the sick room. Holmes, never one to adhere to orders other than his own, followed him.

Lord Crowley did not hesitate as he disappeared around the corner. Holmes shouted after him, "_Mister_Crowley, your own daughter is dying and you care more for the governess? What sort of man are you?" In a pique of anger, Holmes hissed, "I have no patience for cowards!" For a moment, he stared after Lord Crowley. Composing himself, he then turned and entered the sickroom.

The black curtains were drawn back, allowing the rays of the afternoon sun enter. Dust danced around the beams of light, swirling around and away from Holmes as he slowly approached the bed. The wooden chair lay on its side, toppled in the governess' rush from the room; Holmes righted it and dragged it to the side of the bed. He sat down, grasped the whimpering girl's hand, and whispered, "Lilith? This is Mr. Ho… This is Sherlock." He placed his other hand on her forehead, which burned to the touch.

Lilith's sobs turned to moans, then to silent, even breaths. She wiped the tears from her red-rimmed eyes and whimpered, "Sherlock… I cannot feel my legs! Why?"

Holmes sighed, "If my friend, Dr. Watson, were here, he might have a diagnosis. Otherwise... I don't know."

"But you know everything!"

"I am not omniscient, Lilith!" Holmes barked harshly. He regretted it upon seeing the betrayed look on Lilith's face. He sighed, "Not every case comes to a satisfactory conclusion. Even I, with the science of deduction on my side, may never know the full details behind the murder of this man, the kidnapping of that woman…" Holmes met Lilith's gaze. "The salvation for a little girl who is dying."

Lilith stared. Then, taking Holmes' other hand into hers, she whispered, "Thank you."

Minutes passed, filled only with the sound of Lilith's labored breathing. Then, all of a sudden, the pale child asked, "Will I see Mother in heaven?"

Holmes had to smile. "That is the second question you have posed for which I have no answer."

Lilith giggled, a sound that tore Holmes' heart to pieces. She folded her hands in the coverlet, and asked, "Sherlock, when you get to heaven, will you have all the cases you want?"

"What makes you think I shall go to heaven?" Holmes retorted.

"I will ask Him to let you in," Lilith replied with a smile on her face. The smile vanished as a serious bout of coughing overcame her. After a few moments, the coughing had not ceased, and the detective realized the severity of the situation. The coughs became louder and fiercer, her breathing became irregular and labored; panicked, she was gasping for breath.

"Sherlock…" Lilith managed to force out, "I'm scared."

Cursing propriety, Holmes got off the chair and sat on Lilith's bed. He took the shaking girl into an embrace, cradling her head. Without thinking, he allowed words of comfort to flow from his mouth, words that Watson used on one hysterical client, and he gently rocked Lilith. Each breath was later and weaker than the last, each gasp rattled. Her skin, pale as it was before, was now completely white. Fear and terror reflected in the dying girl's green eyes, yet Holmes saw something that outshone the other two: relief and adoration.

Holmes realized that this girl was more than a mere unit in a problem.

Lilith's eyes fluttered closed; however, her chest continued to rise and fall. Against all hope, the little girl's fight for life continued. Tightly, she grasped the waist of the thin detective, trembling, trying to win a lost war.

In an uncharacteristic act to soothe her, Holmes leaned over and brushed his lips on the girl's burning forehead. He whispered, "Lilith, you are a brave, brave, girl. I'm so sorry."

Lilith's final breath caressed Sherlock Holmes' cheek.

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><p>The funeral was a small affair, only attended by the servants and the London detective. Lord Crowley was not available; Holmes ensured that Lestrade accompanied the cab ferrying the lord to London for his murder trial.<p>

The minister left ten minutes earlier, and the servants returned to Undershaw Manor. Only Holmes remained at the grave of Lilith Ava Crowley, whom they buried under her bedroom window. Holmes stood at the white gravestone, shaped into the figure of an angel. On it was Lilith's name, her birth and death dates, and this inscription:

_Though Death has taken her before her time, Lilith has solved the mystery of Life._

Holmes looked up to the gray sky. "Lord Crowley poisoned you," he murmured, "With the loss of your mother, your father also lost his senses." In his mind's eye, he saw Julia Stoner and her father, Dr. Grimesby Roylott of Stoke Moran, and the madness that overtook the doctor in the days after the death of his wife… "The possibility of losing you was too much to bear; he devised a plan to safeguard you. Slipping poison into your water kept you in your bed and away from harm. However, in the manner of the coward he is, he shied away and tried to heal you." The faces of the three Fox children, whose mother poisoned them for their insurance money, emerged from the darkness of memory… "Upon finding that the damage he caused was irreversible, he searched for a cure, and discovered the Miracle Doctor. He consulted me to deduce whether the cure would work, rather than the validity of the criminal." The victims of Josiah Amberley made their appearance, the case still fresh in Holmes' mind, the anger at the attempted trickery of Amberley burning in him… "Once I gave him my findings, he resolved to continue dosing your water and cease forestalling the inevitable."

Holmes sighed. "You deserved an explanation," he continued, "Lilith; I took your water glass because I suspected your father of devious designs against you. My suspicions proved correct, but I was too late. Your father... your father avoided you because he was too afraid to see the consequences of his own actions."

Holmes tentatively reached out and touched the engraving. Then, a single tear, for the clients and units of his precious puzzles who lost their lives over the years, rolled down his sallow cheek.

"I failed you, Lilith… I failed you…"

**rIn**

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><p><strong> Author's Note: There are references to "The Speckled Band", "The Sign of Four", and "The Retired Colourman". Copyright Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I bid you good day, and hope that this new version is to your liking.<strong>


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